Red Letter Believers

A little water won't hurt

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Fri, 25 May 2012 11:00:00 +0000

It's always interesting to see how informal groups quickly fall behind a person. There's always somebody that has the magnetism and the drive that others recognize. Every group needs a leader, otherwise it will quickly fall apart.

The ragtag group called "the disciples" were obviously led by Peter. Full of vim, vigor and bluster he seemd to be the first one to make the leap. He wanted to show the world that he was a true believer.

He stood in the courtyards and tried to keep the mobs from trampling his Lord. Running the security detail, he was the one who pulled the sword in the Garden. When times got tough, he rallied the troops. He was the muscle behind the message.

So it's no surprise that he was the first one out of the boat.

Oh. The boat. The one that Jesus sent to the other side and a storm kicked, threatening to capsize the boat. And then suddenly, walking on the water, He appeared. The disciples were relieved and simultaneously scared out of their wits.

Not Peter. "Let me walk," he said. "I can do this."

He actually did -- but then, the reality of the situation gripped him. There's no ground, nothing solid to stand on. He realized that he wasn't supposed to do this and he began to sink.

And I think that was a good thing. It still is. So what if you sink. So what if your nostrils fill with water and you push up with all your flailing strength just to get a gasp of air. So what if you feel like this time, it's the end.

Photo by Whitney Thorne

We could all use a little sinking in our lives, in order to build reliance on the unsinkable One. We all could stand to go hungry for a day, to lose a little sleep, to miss a paycheck, to lose a friend.

When you're in the middle of adversity, when you miss a breath, you feel like it's the end. It isn't.

What if we didnt know where our next meal would come from, if we would have another hour, if we couldn't be sure of the next breath. Utter reliance isn't such a bad thing.

We could all stand to lose something, in order to gain everything.

I'm not afraid to sink, and I won't drown.

Can we ever trust again?

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Wed, 23 May 2012 21:47:00 +0000

Trust is a critical component -- in the workplace, in the home, in churches and in politics. Nothing will derail good intentions faster than a lack of trust.

Many of our societal ills come from a lack of trust. Government manipulation of data to support the Vietnam War, capped by Watergate started the modern-day distrust of authority. Investigative reporters became a standard at most newsrooms.

And before you knew it, every authority figure was looked at askance, as if anything they said was a lie. Suddenly, liars were everywhere – or so it seemed. Prominent church leaders, politicians and journalists have all fallen from their precarious perches. Companies crumbled and took their shareholders and pensioners savings down with them.

Can we ever trust again?

Does a Christian have more credibility than a non Christian? I think we need to be clarions of truth, never stretching the truth for our own benefit. Our word means nothing when we say one thing and then do another. "Let your yes be yes."

Trust isn’t complicated. It’s earned through words and backed by actions. I've learned this lesson the hard way, as I reap daily the bad fruit from lies told long ago.

What are your feelings on trust? Are you cyical, jaded and distrusting everyone? Do you find that your lack of trust causes you to limp along? What would life be like if you trusted again?

"Uphold me in the common strife
Give me the grace to work and plan
And in the marketplace of life
O keep me, Lord, an honest man.

—Bayliss

How to Find an Upside in This Down Economy

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Thu, 17 May 2012 11:00:00 +0000

We all know people who have been laid off, fired or whose jobs have disappeared altogether. For millions, months have now turned into years of unemployment or under-employment. Maybe this is you.

I have a friend -- John -- who lost his job. His attitude was amazing. With a wife and children at home, he could have, he should have gotten angry. But instead his very first reaction was of expectancy. "I don't like it. I don't understand it. But I look forward to seeing the hand of God in our lives," he wrote in his journal on the day he was laid off.

In the same position, I probably would have said things and done things that were far less holy. I might have even given God—and my boss—a piece of mind. But John immediately saw the possibility of an upside in his down world.

While the world sees brokenness, we (should) see blessings. While the market sees chaos, we see order emerging. While friends and family see despair, we can find hope. That's who we are.

Read the rest of this article about my friend John which is featured this week over at Christianity Today, Men of Integrity.
How are you faring in this down economy? What lessons have you learned?

Photo by David Rupert

Going back to the rubble

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Mon, 14 May 2012 12:29:00 +0000

(Photo credit: OldOnliner)

Have you ever opened up a desk drawer and promptly closed it because it was just too messy to deal with.

Some of us have chapters of our lives that we wish weren't part of our history. There is abundant counsel and books that go to great lengths to help us “deal with it.” The problem is that there seems to be so little to deal with. For me, when I look back at those years, when I survey the landscape, all I see is rubble.

It’s a tangled, twisted mess . Worse of all, I can’t change history, especially the actions of others. I'm not alone in dealing with yesterday. I bet there are days, or months, or years you wish you could just rip the pages out of the calendar of time and throw them away. But you can't.

There’s an African concept called Sankofa. If your village burns down, you go back to it and pick through the rubble, rescuing what you can. You then leave, simple possessions in hand, to your new home. "It's not wrong to go back for that what you've forgotten".

There’s an acknowledgement of trial and tragedy, and a simple thankfulness for what still remains.

Going back is problematic, because I do have to face certain truths about others – and myself. But within that rubble of relationship and circumstance are some diamonds, some precious things that survived the heat and the flame. There are things that cannot be destroyed that can go with me.

When I focus on the circumstance, it’s all too easy to play the victim, to rub the soot on my face and wait for others to give a little pity. But By doing so, I drag them, unwittingly, to the ruins, to the scene of the crime.

So I have a few precious things that I have recovered, memories that I cherish.

And I have a Rock that survived the flame. In my new home, I select an even spot on the ground and place it, tamping it down so it doesn't move. I then find another rock to stack. And then another.

We draw lessons from the past, but we cannot live in it -- Lyndon Johnson
But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead," Phillipians 3:13

One Brilliant Show

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Sun, 13 May 2012 03:32:00 +0000

(This is a repost from last year's Mother's Day article. When I printed it off and showed it to her, she cried. I didn't know it would be her last Mother's Day)

She was always a good sport. Amazing sense
of humor. "Mom, hold this broom and smile"

Mom has always had a passion for flowers. She believed they could brighten any drab room, liven any conversation, and change any dour mood. For 20 years, she took this vision earnestly each Sunday at the First Baptist Church. As the flower coordinator, she turned the plain wood altar at the front of the church into a dazzling display of God’s creation.

A negligible budget prevented floral shop arrangements, only provoking the creative mind of this resourceful woman. Every Saturday we would search the mountain countryside for willows and lilacs and wild flowers. Old dirt roads, creek beds -- and even abandoned graveyards-- were sources we would use.

The cold winters limited our natural flower gathering, so Mom utilized her for dried collections, pulled from boxes stacked high in the garage. Her delightful displays, no matter the season, were often the subject of talk after church more than the sermons.

During the winter, Mom raised daffodils in pots that lined her kitchen window. Each day she watered, fed, and fertilized -- all in preparation for one brilliant show on the church altar. Mom would always pick a spring day when the snow was deep, but the sun brilliant. With tender care Mom would clip the daffodils from her pots in the window. The shoots were full and ready to burst, their tops still wrapped tight in the leafy envelope.

The buds were placed in a simple glass vase full of warm water, placed on the altar hours before anyone else arrived. As the time drew near, the church members traipsed through flowing gutters and slushy sidewalks, and ducked streaming icicles from the roof edge as they entered.

The best looking 78 year old woman I've ever known

The service began as had a hundred others, with the usual announcements and welcomes to visitors. Imperceptibly at first, then with amazing swiftness the buds began to open. By time the service was over, the daffodils had exploded into a panoply of color. The miracle of flowers, generated by an eternal God who did not leave us in a drab, cold world, was on full display.

Her children have all progressed long ago to adulthood, her long labor of love finally fulfilled . With dirt on her hands, this blessed woman places her children on the altar, an offering to her Maker.

Here are some reflections about her final days. Here and here.

Subscribe to all future posts here.

Brain Freeze

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Fri, 11 May 2012 21:32:00 +0000

"Iron rusts from disuse; stagnant water loses its purity and in cold weather becomes frozen; even so does inaction sap the vigor of the mind."

-- Leonardo da Vinci, The Notebooks

What do you do to keep fresh?

Photo by Justified Sinner

Tomorrow's Legacy -- Today

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Thu, 10 May 2012 11:09:00 +0000

What will our children remember?

We all treasure memories. At most of my family gatherings, more than one conversation begins with the expression, “remember when?”

The term is sometimes used to provoke a story, to spur the conversation. But in a deeper way, it’s a tool to help us never forget, to perpetuate the memory. If you don’t keep telling the story, the details get fuzzy – or exaggerated. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard about the root beer on the carpet, or the sledding incident with the dog, or the fishing trip that ended with no fish and a canoe at the bottom of the lake. I know the details, but I want to keep hearing them, so I never forget.

In ancient times, legends were passed on through crude drawings on walls; verbal stories told around the fire and values passed from generation to generation through carefully scripted tradition.

The Bible reminds fathers to teach their children, for the young women to learn from the older women and for the young boys to be taught from their elders.

It’s particularly critical for the sandwich generation – those adults stuck in the middle of two generations. I was there, until both my parents died within 11 months of each other. Suddenly, their children were charged with the family legacy.

Passing it on

We sat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by thousands of photos. My sister and I were awed by these collected images from the generations of our family. Mom had trunks and boxes of pictures, stored in shoeboxes, crumbling albums and plastic bags. They were from both sides of the family tree, with many protruding branches. The busy redhead had the best of intentions to organize them, but she simply ran out of days.

And now, there is no one else left to sort them out. We couldn’t just leave it in boxes for our kids, without instructions, without any historical context. It was disorganized, almost hopelessly so. The photo locations, age and bloodlines were all mixed together in a cosmopolitan mix that was almost like a random time machine.

There were lots of pictures of Grandma and Grandpa Rupert on the farm in Lark, North Dakota. They were always smiling, surrounded by horse-drawn farm equipment, covered in dirt and joy. But all of that changed in the 1936, when they put up the farm for auction. No crops. No water. The final photo shows a Chevy pulling a small trailer and the penciled caption, “last day in North Dakota.”

I can’t imagine leaving the life’s work. But they did, trusting God to provide. And He did.

Behind every photo is a story. Some I know, but most are lost to the sands of time, perhaps forever.

Just because it’s old, is it important?

There were pictures of fishing trips and camp meetings, fields in harvest and babies in ornate cradles with lace hats. It was all interesting, but what did we need to keep? Was it right to throw away a 110-year old photograph? Many of the people in the photos we simply didn’t know. Perhaps they were acquaintances or distant family, but someone thought them important enough to photograph and to keep. Is that what memories should be, preserving what someone else felt what was important? Or do I get to choose?

The digital age means that many photos will be lost to scratched compact disks or nonfunctioning hard drives, the smiling faces forever lost to technology.

So what is the legacy that I will preserve for the generations, bottling them up for discovery one day by the curious time travelers? What will we wash away with the spin cycle of time, chalked up to that was yesterday?

The questions are far more numerous than the answers. I hope the memory I give my children, and grandchildren is one of righteousness and truth, one that goes beyond mere pictures or words.

I wonder what they will need to know to survive through their deepest struggle. Will they seek out the memory, and will it be there?

Join, "I live in a Hotbed" for more ruminations on how our impacts our families"

I should have seen it coming

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Wed, 09 May 2012 11:07:00 +0000

Photo by Andy Arthur

When personal tragedy hits, we often are shocked to the core.

Where did that come from?

When we are hit with a failed relationship or a big bill or the loss of a job, we go into a nerve-rattling state of unbelief.

Who could have seen that one coming?

But the truth of the matter is that there really is no such thing as “all of sudden" When we objectively look back at our past, we can see the missteps, the disobedience and the bad choices that led to the current predicament.

There things in my life that need to be fixed – right now before they get to crisis. And I’ll bet you have similar issues. Gathering steam, these unresolved issues are pulling together and looking for escape. They could be under the surface. They could be right in front of your face.

Ignorance isn't bliss. It might even be tragic.

These issues might include an unchecked sin. David’s sideways glance which turned into a lingering stare at the bathing Bathsheba led to adultery, deception and murder. He lost four of his sons and almost his kingdom over an unchecked passion.

It might an angry word that was left hanging, unconfessed and unresolved. Like an alien seed in a prize crop, it can sprout at the worst time.

It might be a relationship that needs to be patched up. A friend. A brother. A Coworker that you wronged or that wronged you. It doesn’t matter.

I have ignored things in the past and left them unresolved. They gnawed away in termite-like determination, felling my once strong oak tree person. And I crashed under the weight of my own neglect.

I’m learning my lesson.

Slowly.

The F Word

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Mon, 07 May 2012 11:02:00 +0000

I'll never forget the first cuss word my son brought home from school. It was the first grade and this mild, quiet blonde-haired blue- eyed little boy uttered a word that had never been spoken in our home. The shocking thing was how easy it rolled of his tongue, a parrot simply mocking the words of another.

He was surprised at our reaction, his innocent and ignorance in play.

We quickly scrubbed the offending word out of his vocabulary. Other words would find their way from the world and each time, we had to nudge the language back to wholesome.

However, there was one particular word that, even though it was banished, it still kept finding a way back in various forms. We called it the "F" word

"Fair."

Among all the despicable words out there, this is the one that never seems to go away. You find it everywhere, from the Kindergarten class, to the demonstration on the town square to the stage for the highest office in the land. It dominates the office, seeps into the marketplace and rotates in the cul-de-sacs of our neighborhoods.

Just think of the way the word dominates politics these days. The war on classes will escalate for the next six months, with fairness the rallying cry. We are told that there should be fairness in employment and housing and opportunity. I'm all for that, but I know one thing about life and that it's really never totally fair.

We'll always have someone who will slight us, who won't like us for our faith, or our stand, or our adherence to principle. We'll be overlooked, ignored and forgotten. We'll get a sickness, or have a spouse leave, or get fired for no good reason. We'll be discriminated against for our skin color, our politics, or our weight. It’s going to happen to the best of us.

That's why, in our home, we called it the "F" word. It was never to be used or inferred. I told my sons that life never has, and never will be fair.

We were never promised a fair society, or a world that had equal opportunity for all. And actually, such a world would defy our human nature. At our core we only think about justice when an injustice has been done against us. We only think about a level playing field when ours is disadvantaged. Most see life with a narrow scope, limited to only a very selfish perspective.

But here's the real question. Do we really want fairness?

Jesus said the last will be first, and the last will be first. That's not fair.

We're told that the worker who starts late in the day will get his full pay. That's not fair.

We're told that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. That's not fair.

Honestly, it isn't fairness that I want, because if I get what I deserve, it won't be all that good.

Mercy I'll take.
Grace I cherish.
But not fairness.

"I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world"

Joining Michelle, "Hear it on Sunday".

I ask for wonder

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Wed, 02 May 2012 11:15:00 +0000

"We strain to renew our capacity for wonder, to shock ourselves into astonishment once again."
-- Shana Alexander

There was one point in my life that all I wanted was salvation.
Sick of my selfish ways, tired of the struggle, and lost in sin, I needed a savior. On a hot July night, I bowed my head and prayed with a grey-haired man with gnarled fingers pointing to the path down the Roman road.

Then I wanted knowledge. I began to buy books -- C.S. Lewis, Francis Schaeffer, Josh McDowell, Walter Martin, Ravi Zacharais and other men who could give reason for faith gripped my mind. I loved the challenge and joust, eager to share my headstrong belief.

Photo by D. Rupert

Then I wanted experience. I wanted to see where God was at work. I wanted to talk to the homeless, the drug addict, the lost dogs who had wandered. I sought them out and shared the gospel and hoped for positive return. We opened home and table, wallet and hearts. They often took and walked away, but still I wanted the experience of their lives, broken and yet so fixable. In the meantime, I looked for God to stir my own soul, to awaken me every day.

Then I just wanted to find my way back home. The path that I knew was right was overgrown, neglected by my own disregard. Then abandoned by love, spurned by friends, and forgotten, I wallowed in pity. I had all the salvation, all the knowledge and the experience in the world, but I still had no idea.

Now, I'm home again and there's one thing I want. I ask for wonder.

My priorities are so different know, because they are so undefined. I want to wake up every morning and be gripped by the awe of the sunrise. I want to hear the birdsong like it's the first time. I want to lose myself in this deep love that has no beginning and no end. I want to drive on a dusty road with the windows down, the radio up high, a 1/4 tank of gas and not a worry in the world.

I want to revel in the unknown like a traveler in a new land. I want to embrace the mystery like child. I want to draw a question mark with a stubby pencil.

Wonder is what my friend Laura Boggess desires most for her boy, "who will awake under a star-strewn sky -- filled with wonder at what God has done." She talks about the mysterion found in the Greek new testament, those profound mysteries that are meant to be discovered -- in due time.

I'm not dropping out. I'll still pull my tie up to my neck and report to work. I'll continue to sit through sermons every Sunday, study with passion, participate in small groups and listen to Christian music. I'll share my faith and do all the duties that I know to be true. But still, I'll get lost in the wonder of it all and just smile.

Funny, but embracing the uncertainty is the most certain thing a man can do.

Care to comment?

Flunking First Grade

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 12:04:00 +0000

I remember when my mother threatened to hold me back a year. I was the youngest in my First-Grade class, an anomaly of the school calendar. I wasn't adapting well and she thought I might do better by starting over again.

Somehow, I talked my way through it. But the truth is that I probably wasn't ready.

It's that way for me now. There are some life lessons I really should have learned a long time ago. I heard this verse recently in church and it's simplicity floored me.

"In this world, you will have trouble." Can I get an amen?
"But be of good cheer." Huh?
"For I have overcome the world." Oh. I forgot.

How come verses like this pierce my soul? For some reason, I thought by now I would get it. After so many years, I thought I would be able to have the faith to walk without doubt. I thought I would be able to trust that God has a plan. I thought I would be able to discern the reason for the trials.

Translating the simple truth of a God who cares, who is in control and who is intimately aware of my everyday life seems to be a lifelong struggle.

Here's one thing I really want to nail down: Suffering isn't a tragedy, rather it's a promotion.

It's a chance to see things from another view, to elevate above the everyday world and to find a higher meaning, a purpose to all of this.

Not everyone gets that clarity. Most clump through life, stomping through the well-worn paths and never even looking ahead, let alone above.

Not everyone can see where the parade leads. Instead they march, doing their duty while the crowds cheer and all they see is the poor chump in front of them. Winding through the streets, all they know is when it's over.

So suffering, setback and trial all have a way of making me focus. They have allowed me to have a razor-sharp clarity, a 20-20 vision that puts me on the observation deck instead of the gutter.

I think I'm ready for a promotion. Second grade, here I come!

Today is all I have

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 12:03:00 +0000

I used to feel sorry for Karen. Now, I wonder if she feels sorry for us. You see, she has a life completely free of baggage and worry, of bondage and burden. And the rest of us... well, we got junk.

Her story could have been a deadly tragedy. She was driving a car 25 years ago and hit a tree, almost dying in the process. Hospital stays, rehab and plenty of treatments followed.

She has no recollection of that day. Or the day prior. In fact, she can't recall any of her life before the accident.

There might be a certain bliss in that, a chance to start another life. But what complicates Karen's life is that the condition has continued for the rest of her days.

She simply doesn't remember yesterday. Her brain was damaged in such a way that her short-term memory is all that she has.

I see her at Bible study every week, she sweetly hugs me and says hello. But there's no recall. It doesn't matter. She's a friend and a sister and the fellowship is a given.

But her heart is so pure, so innocent and refreshingly open to God, because she lives just for today.

Last night, she breathlessly told all of us that she just hour by hour, because that's all she has. In fact, she divides the day's moments up like I might divide up months or years. And tomorrow has no consequence to her either, so there's no need to plan, no dread about the future, and only utter dependence on God.

And although the tragedy was terrible, her dependence on God is the way it should be. Every day, she wakes up with no regret, no anger, and no bitterness. Every day, she starts with a fresh slate, ready for God to bless her and teach her. Every day, she opens her eyes and remembers that she is loved and that there is a God.

Just for today, give me such a simple life.

Just for today, help me to forget the past.

Just for today, help me trust God - wholly - for the future.

What a day that would be.

Photo by David Rupert, Lake Tahoe, the bench where my parents would sit

No Stranger to Danger

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 12:21:00 +0000

I have often lived a life of danger.

As a child, I was the one who teetered the totter, who rocked the boat, who always found a way to make life a little more ... adventurous. Pushing the edge of safety, my gang of friends were the ones everyone else wanted to be like. Parents warned their children to stay away.

As an adult, some of that has carried over. I love to experience new things and places. And that has led to some near tragedies. Women in my life have either loved it, or hated it (sorry Mom!). It has imperiled my children and thrilled them at the same time.

Christ the Saviour (Pantokrator)
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I've flipped rafts in the middle of raging rivers, slid down the sides of mountains, and been stuck in mud up to the hood. I've been robbed at knifepoint in Panama, questioned by Turkish police for taking photos, and wandered in Chicago's worst neighborhood at night on foot.

Some would this and adventurous lifestyle. Now that I'm a little older, I call many of these thing just plain stupid. There is a line between the two, I didn't always fall on the right side, to my detriment.

Jesus on the Edge
The thrill seeker in me always recoiled at images of the olive-skinned depictions of Jesus, artists more intent on creating a Savior with a look straight out of a magazine. The fairy-man with a permanent back-lit hairdo, a trimmed beard and perfect teeth.

Really?

My Jesus was a dangerous man. He called the Pharisees "white-washed tombs" and "broods of vipers." When He heard that John was imprisoned, he went to Galilee and called Herod a fox. He touched a leper, conversed with a prostitute and shared a cup with detestable people. He rode straight into Jerusalem, knowing full well what lay ahead.

He never ran from danger. He never backed down from a challenge. He never showed an ounce of fear.

He was killed not because He was a good teacher. He didn't hang on the tree because of His teachings about the Golden Rule or His love for others.

Christ died because He was a dangerous man -- perhaps the most dangerous man who ever lived. He threatened the well-trod paths of human wisdom, secular government, petty religion and vain piety.

Most of all, I'm learning to channel my adventure. I want to walk into the lion's den, emerge from the belly of the whale, and strike a match in the darkest of night. I learning that the way to reach an outrageous world is with outrageous love. With a dash of danger. I love it.

Hat tip to Eric Parks, preaching at Red Rocks church for the inspiration.

The problem with second place

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Fri, 13 Apr 2012 11:15:00 +0000

This is one of my favorite, and most quoted skits.

It really does describe competition and the quest to win.

Best lines, "Of all the losers, you were the best," and "If I would have had a pimple, I would have won."

Psychology Today actually has published some thoughts about why bronze medalists are more satisfied than the silver medalist.

"The silver medalist compares him or herself to the gold medal winner. But, the bronze medal winner compares him or herself to those people who did not win a medal."

Golfer Phil Mickelson has a reputation for losing at the last minute, with dozens of one or two stroke off the leader finishes. He's lovable, an underdog because we feel sorry for him.

I can look back to the times in my life I finished second -- just passed over for a promotion, or second place in the church bowling tourney. There was something less than satisfying in it.

And then there were the times when I solidly middle of the pack. It was no big deal.

Jesus said, "the first will be last and the last will be first."

So, where does second end up?

What about you? What do you think about second place?

What does happy look like?

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Wed, 11 Apr 2012 11:00:00 +0000

She tosses her hair back and laughs at the silly joke. I can’t hear what’s said, but I notice she turns her face to the ground when she thinks no one is looking and grimaces, biting her lip. There’s pain, but she’s trying not to show. It’s Happy Hour. The sun is shining. The libations are flowing. The appetizers are passed around the table. Is this what happy looks like?

He bought a new car. It can hit 80 in seven seconds. He knows, because he pushes it on every interstate on-ramp. He's told me -- several times. I get it. He’s 50, but with a tan and a flowing hair that just touches his earlobe, he feels 25 all over again. The directors just gave the promotion and the check that follows. But inside, he wonders. He asked me once, "Is this all?" Is this what happy looks like?

She clutches the check in her hand and leaves her keys on the counter. Off to discover the world, to find herself. Left behind are memories – good and bad. But there's no place to hide the bitterness, the shame and regret. Her friends told her that her happiness is what counts most, even claiming that God wants us in this condition. But the anchor that she drags behind is the reminder of what should have been. Is this what happy looks like?

I have chased happy. You name it, I've thought it would fulfill. Sex. Possessions. Relationships. Money. Power. Position. I thought all of them would satisfy, that they would make me happy. But they carved the ravine in my heart deeper still, and the tears could never fill the hole.

We constantly tell ourselves that it’s a love or a relationship that makes us happy, or just a little more money, or a better job. Sometimes it's a drag, or a sip or two. Sometimes it's losing ten pounds, or twenty. It can be a vacation or an hour of sheer pleasure. But really, happiness like this really never lasts.

I choose joy.

Joy isn’t dependent on a situation in life. It doesn't need another person to complete. It's free and without strings. And best of all, unlike happiness, it doesn't require detox or botox or lipo in the end.

I don't have achieve it, earn it or work for it.

At the end of the chase, looking for pots of gold and nirvana and bliss, I wheeze in, breathless and spent. Joy sits, legs crossed at the end of the path, twirling a piece of grass. "Where have you been?

"The hope of the righteous brings joy" Proverbs 10:28

Linking up with Jennifer today, "God Bumps"

Johnny Hart - we miss you this Easter Day

noreply@blogger.com (Red Letter Believers) — Sun, 08 Apr 2012 00:00:00 +0000

(A repost and Easter Day Favorite)

Johnny Hart, who was the master cartoonist behind the "B.C." cartoon strip as well as the "Wizard of Id," died of a stroke five years ago on, ironically, on Easter Day.

He had a wry sense of humor that made millions laugh since 1958. "B.C." was considered the most widely read comic strip on the planet.

Johnny’s conversion to Christianity is an interesting story and came about because of someone who springs from someone who brought faith to the workplace.

Although a churchgoer as a child, he left the faith and eventually found fame and fortune as a cartoonist.
In 1977, he bought a 158-acre property in Nineveh, New York. He couldn’t get cable and a neighbor introduced him to a father-son pair of satellite TV dish salesmen who agreed to wire his place up.
A complicated job, it took the pair over 2 months. As Christians, they kept the Christian channel on as a test channel. Johnny, commenting on the type of TV programs, said, "Is that all there is?" "No Sir, Mr. Hart; we can change to something else!" Strangely, Hart didn't request a change. He began to watch … and listen.
One Sunday, he and his wife drove by a local church that reminded him of his childhood. He leaned over and asked, “Would you like to go to church?” His wife Bobby said, “No, not really.” Johnny then secretly prayed that God would change her heart; and in just 2 weeks, she asked the church question of him. He found the church, but more importantly, he found his God. He later was a children’s Sunday school teacher.

Hart’s faith began to infect his comic strips.
During Christmas and Easter, he was always blatant about his beliefs.
They worked their way into many other strips – since his faith defined his work. But it wasn’t without controversy.

In fact, in 2001, the Jewish Anti-defamation league chastised him for his strip that showed a seven-branch menorah. Each panel featured one of the Last Seven Words of Jesus. The cartoon concludes with the menorah transformed into a cross.

That’s bold stuff to put on newspaper strips.
“I wanted everyone to see the cross in the Menorah,” he said. “It was a revelation to me that has tied God’s chosen people to their spiritual kin, the disciples of the Risen Christ,"
He took on abortion and evolution in ways that were simply masterful.

A simple argument to tear through the walls of ignorance.
To Hart, the most gratifying thing he ever did professionally was to turn his work into ministry.
“I was almost beginning to get tired of my work until that happened,” he said.
I think it most fitting that God would choose Easter Day to take him.

Click here for his final Easter strip.
Johnny Hart was a true Red Letter Believer, a man who lived out his faith. He didn’t need a pulpit. He had a pen.

He told Plain Truth,
“I realize the value in being subtle.”

Subtle, indeed.

Johnny, we miss you.

What's your memory of Johnny's work?

Interviews:http://cagle.msnbc.com/hogan/interviews/hart/home.asp

http://www.ptm.org/JulHartofBC.htm
http://www.answersingenesis.org/creation/v19/i1/hart.asp
http://www.layman.org/layman/the-layman/1999/nov-dec99/hart-of-faith.htm

http://www.christianitytoday.com/tc/7r2/7r2018.html

Napping in Gethsemane

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Fri, 06 Apr 2012 10:05:00 +0000

The prayers were agonizing—so intense that red sweat stained his white robe on this blackest of nights.

The sorrow was excruciating—deep, painful, and overwhelming. Jesus said he felt like dying. A pall hung over the olive garden, and he pleaded with his friends, "Stay here. Keep watch with me."

But Peter, James, and John missed out on the eternal significance of the moment. After all, their bellies were full from the Passover meal. And it was dark and late. Sleep came too easily. Their eyes grew heavy, and “they fell into slumber."

Until Jesus woke them—probably not with a gentle nudge or a soft tap. He didn't allow the disciples to roll over and hit the snooze switch. He said in disbelief, "Couldn't you stay awake for just a little while?" He was in an eternal struggle for the very souls of mankind, and here they were, napping in Gethsemane.

My reaction, and perhaps yours, too, is condemnation. Didn't they know that this was Jesus' last night? Couldn’t they be there for their friend?

But this story is about more than a group of first century slackers who couldn't keep it together.

I too have been found asleep in the garden. My Christian life is filled with promises to stay awake, but too often, I just nod off. Indifference and complacency mark my apathetic world. I act like I just don't care. I keep hoping that someone else will fill the gap, that another will take my watch. I pray that other servants will demonstrate Jesus to those around me, while I just get a little more rest.

I'm not always looking for a way out. I'm fully awake for Sunday morning worship. How could I possibly miss that joy and energy? I'm never asleep for the awards ceremony, when others dish out praise for my deeds or my words. And when the soldiers rush the garden, I'm up and awake for a good fight. But most of the time, I just check out.

Reading Christ's words are one thing, but applying those Red Letters to my life is completely different. It doesn’t come by osmosis. I have to be awake.

People aren't perfect. And to keep and maintain relationships takes effort. It means I have to be awake.

Other imperfect saints—just like me—make up the Church. Together, we need to work to make it effective. But we have to be awake.

My workplace is full of those who hurt. They need answers. They need a reason. If I am called to my vocation, I must be aware of these people. I have to be awake.

Jesus knows that living in the real world is hard. He acknowledged as much when he said “the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” Still, he comes back—repeatedly—and says, “Watch and pray with me."

Will we watch for ways to stand with Jesus when it comes to righteousness and justice, speaking truth in love? Will we see the opportunities to bear his name, to be his witness? Will we notice those who are beaten down by affliction and trouble and then help turn their discouragement into hope?

Will we watch for ways to exceed expectations, to rise above the lowered bar of mediocrity and do all of our tasks “as unto the Lord”?

This dark night needs all of us to stand, side by side, to watch and to pray.

Why God Shouldn't Give Me What I Want

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 12:13:00 +0000

I remember praying hard for a job I wanted.
I engaged friends and extended family in the petition.
As a family, we bowed our heads and pleaded in earnest.
My heart was pure.
My motives were honest.
And someone else got the job.

Six months later, the position was eliminated.

Thank goodness He didn't give me what I wanted.
But that hasn't stopped me.

I've asked for increased recognition, for earthly rewards, for selfish, petty things. I ask and ask and ask. In retrospect, there are so many things I wish I had never uttered.

My petitions are simply misguided. You see, I ask that the pain be removed, forgetting that within the struggle is a victory. I ask that my finances be enriched, forgetting that it is in need that I learn trust. I ask for comfort, neglecting the struggle for character.

Midas asked for a golden touch -- and he got it to his delight. But when his gold-encrusted food was inedible and his family and friends became gleaming solid statutes, it wasn't so wonderful. We often pray for the wrong things for the wrong reasons.

And then there are the prayers I've prayed that aren't selfish. For the wisdom to speak truth. For the Prodigal's in my life - a wife, a brother, a friend. For the salvation of my coworkers, neighbors and family. For peace and justice and for the spread of righteousness. I won't take those prayers back.

C.S. Lewis wrote, "If God had granted all the silly prayers I've made in my life, where would I be now?"

When I bow my head in thanks today, maybe I'll start by thanking God for all the prayers he didn't grant. I'm happy He said "No."

"God, save me from myself."

Joining up with Jennifer Lee at Getting Down with Jesus

My Last Day

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 12:19:00 +0000

"It's not how you start your life, it's how you finish."

Confronted with these words, I chronicle the timeline of my life. Like a stock chart, a roller coaster, or a heart machine, there is little consistency. I'm up. I'm down. And there's really little in between.

When my days are done, how will I have lived?

One day, Will be I viewed as a good husband, a partner to the end?
Will I have loved with integrity, honesty and faithfulness?
Will I be viewed as an honorable father, an example of how to live a life?
Will I be seen as a loyal friend, always true?

In every one of these areas I've been a failure in the past. But there's still time.

So this is my last day. At least it might be. So how will I act? What will I do?

In the end, a faithful life is much more acceptable than one filled with fireworks that flash brilliantly, then get sucked into the night.

In the end, a life of integrity is more desirable than one filled with grand tales and wordy flights of fancy.

In the end, a life lived for others does much more good than one lived for self.

Right now there are hoards of flowers out, a sign of Spring. But a winter storm is moving in -- and by the end of the week they'll be shriveled, frozen by the cold blast. They were pretty, but did they last?

Will Rogers said, "Live your life in such a way, that you would not be ashamed to sell your parrot to the town gossip."

May I watch my words
May I guard my heart
May I check my thoughts
May I live this day
As if it were my very last

Psalm 86.11. "Teach me your way, Lord, that I may rely on your faithfulness. Give me an undivided heart, that I may fear your name."

Did he waste his life?

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Thu, 29 Mar 2012 11:30:00 +0000

I read the words in the newspaper, disbelieving. He was gone, leaving a wife and a couple of sons at home.

He left undone too many things that should have been.

They said it was his heart. But I wonder if it was his soul that went first.

Flashback. We were young men in the faith, ready to change the world. We knocked on doors, talked to people on street corners, picked up hitchhikers and were always ready to give a defense.

A dynamic duo.

But then things went bad for him. A marriage that dissolved far too quickly. She left him tattered. He got the house, but she took his heart. A ruined reputation and a battered mind, he retreated. The smell of alchohol at 9 a.m. told me everything I needed to know. But still, I loved and pursued.

I tried to pull him from the hole he'd fallen into with persistence and presence. But over time, we drifted. He didn't want my friendship and I tired of the chase, to my shame.

Did he waste his life? I'll never know.

***
I'm reading about Samson, the mighty judge of Israel. From his birth he was set apart, but he spent his entire life running away from that calling. He caroused, he slept with the enemy and never bothered to rescue his people.

His destiny was forgotten.

Locks removed, his strength now gone, he was easy prey. They pierced his eyes and tied him to a rope and a threshing stone. Round and round he walked while they mocked.

How many times did he ask the same question while walking that circle of shame. "Did I waste my life? Did I waste my destiny?"

Brought out to be spit on at the fish-god festival, he once again found his God-given strength. Samson, though blind, could finally see. For this man, it took absolute shame and the depth of humility to get him to realize. As he pulled the building in on the enemy hoard, this might have been only he actually lived up to his destiny.

In the end, his life wasn't wasted.

And as long as I have breath, there's still time for me.
Care to comment?

Wikipedia

My humble search for a little praise

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 11:30:00 +0000

We all love to hear words of praise.

I don’t care how humble you are, there is still a welling of pride that comes when others recognize the works of your hands.

We like praise. We love praise. We crave praise.

It started as children when even the worse drawing with a blunt crayon was hung on the refrigerator. Proudly beaming for days, we sulked when it finally had to come down.

Something inside of us wants our efforts to be applauded.

"Look at me!"

Although we might coyly wave off words of admiration, we sneak a smile in when we are alone. Our inner human is stroked by the scratch of praise. It feels good to know that our efforts haven’t gone unnoticed, that our duty actually isn’t performed in a vacuum.

"He finally noticed!"

It doesn’t have to be a parade. It doesn’t have to be a party. It just has to be a thank you, and satisfaction runs through your cells like bourbon on a cold night, warming the core.

Admittedly, the words of others affirm us. They measure our worth. They justify our value. They reinforce our sense of importance. Without these words, without any external appreciation of our contributions, some of us may wither or worse, finally rebel.

How many wives or husbands give up after years of not being appreciated? Toiling in anonymous labor, they finally run to someone who will take notice.

How many employees sink to the lowest common denominator, just clocking in because no one ever found the time to pass on a little appreciation?

"I keep giving and giving and no one seems to notice."

But ask yourself this: Just how important is that validation? Is appreciation a prerequisite for giving your all? Or are we called to higher standard, performing to full capacity despite who notices.

Here are some tough questions.

• Could you work an entire career without ever being recognized?

• Can you live with a relationship that is not reciprocal in praise?

• Is it possible to always give and never expect thanks?

“…for they loved the glory that comes from man more than the glory that comes from God.” John 12:43

Care to comment? Click here.

From a noble lie to a magnificent life

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 11:00:00 +0000

As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I knew they were wrong. Something inside of me wanted to tell the truth, but like a split-second decision that changes your destiny, the river flowed out of the wrong channel. Trying to catch the words, they were gone, smoke spreading on a cold morning.

Now out in the open, I had to deal with the after affect. So, I justified the words, first to myself, then to God. Neither of us bought the argument, but it sounded reasonable.

So rationalization was the next step. After all, I didn’t want the other person to be hurt by the truth. Out of sensitivity, the untruth was far more palatable than what really had happened.

I told a lie for a higher good, at least that was the best excuse I could come up with. Plato’s magnificent myth was justification for the elite to lead the subordinate classes into a society that lived in harmony. The noble lie he proposed in the Republic was meant to maintain social peace in the land.

And governments ever since have latched on to the concept with great relish. It’s not relegated to the ancients. The Consumer Price Index, unemployment rate and government budgets are often manipulated figures, contorted to help the masses feel better about their lot.

The problem is that eventually, we know when we are being lied to. We react in anger, and in frustration throw our support to another path, which often filled with a whole new set of noble lies.

In a world of lies, it’s easy to take the cynics path, to trust no one.

And there, on the edge of the rubble of deceit, stands a Savior. “I am the truth, the way, and the life,” he beckons.

Truth

Direction

Life

A noble truth.

A magnficient path.

A different way to live.

Care to comment?

Linking with fellow Denver-ite Laura today.

Beauty has a number

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 11:30:00 +0000

(Photo credit: itspaulkelly)

What makes something beautiful?

The human eye is drawn to objects perfectly proportioned. Think of the spiral of a sea shell or the Egyptian pyramids. Certain faces on people seem to have the perfect dimensions. Some designs seem so perfect. And why are some faces so perfect?

Interestingly, beauty can actually be mathematically equated to 1:1.6. This ratio is calculated by using a series of numbers called the Fibonacci sequence, or the Golden Ratio.

It’s sequence looks like this: 1,2,3,5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, 233, 377.

(Stay with me here) Each number is calculated by adding the previous two numbers. 3+5 = 8. 5+8 = 13 and so on. Take each number, and divide it by the previous number and you get 1.618, or PHI ( φ).

It’s a common mathematical principle, appearing extensively in geometric forms.

Amazingly, you see the Golden Ratio appear in many of the things that please our eyes.

Here is how it looks in nature:

A pineapple has three arms of 5, 8, and 13

The head of a daisy has two spirals that extend from the center. One has 21, while the other has 34

Look at the human body. One nose, two eyes, three segments to each limb and five fingers on each hand. It’s a pattern of beauty.

Even the DNA molecule is proportionately beautiful, measuring 21 x 34

The Golden Ratio is used extensively in many things and is the guide for the perception of beauty. Throughout time, people have sought to use the Golden Ratio in a variety of things like music, design, art, architecture and poetry. Even the famous Mona Lisa’s face is perfectly proportionate according to the ratio. In architecture, the Notre Dame Castle, The United Nations Building, the Taj Mahal and the Parthenon all share the Golden Ratio. Donald Duck and Apple have relied on it's form.

It’s in every day items, like the size of a postcard or the placement of a knob on a door.

We are somehow, intrinsically drawn to such beautiful things. Even body shapes and faces in this proportion are deemed more beautiful and desirable.

This no accident. Evolution doesn’t repeat this pattern all on it’s own. God created beauty and he created us to appreciate beauty. In this huge world, full of variables and uncertainty, there’s an order. There's a divine elegance that flows throughout our world.

No wonder we are amazed.

Just when I have it all figured, God finds a way to inject Grace. He created all of this beauty for me, but then He gravitates toward the things that are different. What I call beautiful, he disregards. He is close to the brokenhearted and saves those that are crushed. The things that are disproportionate, broken and displeasing to the eye are most close His heart.

“He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end.” Ecclesiastes 3:11

Indeed, I am speechless, unable to fathom it all. What immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry?

All this pain I wonder if I’ll ever find my way,I wonder if my life could really change at all

All this earth Could all that is lost ever be found Could a garden come up from this ground at all

You make beautiful things You make beautiful things out of the dust You make beautiful things You make beautiful things out of us

-- Gungor, Beautiful Things

Linking up with Getting Down With Jesus, where others share their God Bumps and Surprises.

Building Fences Around Our Castles

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Tue, 13 Mar 2012 11:00:00 +0000

When you take a snapshot of our personal and collective wealth compared to just 30 years ago, it is staggering. While pockets of poverty exist, even our poor live much better than the majority of the world. Our “middle class” is extraordinarily well off, living in a world that is virtually limitless in its ability to produce, supply and purchase more goods and luxuries.

Yet despite our wealth, we are a lonely people.

While money buys automobiles, homes, and clothes it ultimately buys isolation. If we were without this wealth, we would once again learn interdependence on each other. We would learn the meaning of borrowing a cup of sugar, of helping a neighbor out of a predicament, of community.

This isolation has lead to problems untold. We have built fences around our castles, avoiding any neighborly contact with the push of a garage door opener. We enter these castles eating quick heat dinners and hovering over computer screens with no connection to our fellow man.

Remember the Iraqi man who hid 22 years in a wall that he built inside his home, running from Saddam Hussein’s death squads. But then I was saddened, because he is like so many of us. Rather than face the world, dangerous and frightening it may be, we choose to live in our own prisons. The light of day passes with nary a nod of acknowledgement, for we are captives of the dark.

A loner crane is one tough bird, especially when surrounded
by more than 20,000 at the Monte Vista Crane Festival

How many of us have built a legion of acquaintances and yet avoiding true friendship? The quest for “soulmate” is a juggernaut, elusive because we are looking for the wrong things. Reaching out to fill the holes in our souls, we find nothing. Combating loneliness cannot be overcome with companionship; otherwise a dog would fit the bill. Walking down a busy city street can be among the loneliest activities if you don’t know anyone.

“A man of many companions will come to ruin,' says Proverbs 18.10. "But there is a friend that sticks closer than a brother.”
"God help me be a better friend! "

What do you think about this trend toward isolationism?

How to Make Your Work Count

noreply@blogger.com (David Rupert) — Fri, 09 Mar 2012 12:22:00 +0000

“Nobody likes being around people who hate their jobs. We all need to love what we do, or go work somewhere else. It’s really that simple.”

That's the honest appraisal by writer and blogger Jeff Goins.

He recently had an experience with a surly flight attendant, who made the entire group of passengers uncomfortable. Clearly, she was in the wrong career field.

“We’ve all encountered someone like this—angry, frustrated workers who make their jobs worse by complaining about them,” he writes. “However, these observations can serve as lessons.

So, how do you make your work matter? Goins has some ideas that “will surprise and delight your boss, coworkers, and even yourself.”

Reject the mundane-ness of your circumstance.
Embrace your creative spirit.
Enjoy yourself.

Too many are focused on greener pastures, waiting on that call by the dream employer. Goins wants us to reject that kind of thinking.

“It’s easy to get lost in day-dreaming of the perfect job, of waiting for something extraordinary to just come along,” he writes. “Sometimes, there’s nothing wrong with a little dreaming. But in doing this consistently, you miss out on the chance to be amazing now.”

Read his marvelous post, What an Angry Flight Attendant Taught Me about Doing Meaningful Work.

I'm interested to hear. Are you in a bad job? How do you cope? Share your experience here.